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The Revolution Will Not Be Vitavised
For All Nails #321: The Revolution Will Not Be Vitavised by Johnny Pez ---- :Brooklyn City, New York, N.C., CNA :8 June 1922 When the knock came at the door of his flat, Jeremy Slater figured it was either the millies or the C.B.I. He was a bit surprised when he opened the door and found that it was both. To be exact, there was one C.B.I. agent in the Bureau’s standard black jacket, bow tie, and derby, and four red-uniformed millies. The confed was holding his badge up for Slater to see, and the millies had their sidearms leveled at him in the approved two-handed stance. “Jeremy Slater,” the confed intoned, “you are under arrest for fomenting rebellion against the Confederation of North America. Will you come quietly?” “I will,” Slater answered, because it never paid to give an ambiguous answer when there were four men pointing guns at you. Mind you, even an unambiguous answer was no guarantee that the millies wouldn’t shoot anyway. Here in the N.C., the millies had a reputation for exercising “the Gilpin option” on occasion. If it had just been the millies, Slater suspected he would already be dead; just another militia arrestee “shot while trying to escape.” However, the confed introduced an unexpected element. The C.B.I. had been known to throw the book at trigger-happy millies. “Keep your hands up where I can see them,” the confed ordered, and Slater did so. The five men entered the flat, and Slater found himself shoved up against a wall while his hands were pinned behind his back and bound by a set of clamps. The confed and one of the millies led him out of the flat and down the hall while the other three set about searching for heaven-knew-what. It was a well-known principle in radical circles that when you were arrested it was best to say as little as possible, so Slater did. The confed didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation, so the ride down the lift and out into the street passed in silence. There was a steamer – a Galloway Model Nine – waiting at the curb, with another uniformed millie at the controls. The confed curtly ordered Slater into the back, and he climbed in as nimbly as the clamps allowed him. The millie sat next to him, still pointing the pistol, while the confed took the seat opposite. An equally curt order to the millie at the controls set the steamer in motion, and they were soon chugging along the brick-paved streets of Brooklyn City. It wasn’t the first time Slater had ever traveled by locomobile, but neither had he been in so many that the novelty had worn off. It was a shame the circumstances were so unpleasant; he couldn’t properly enjoy the experience. Slater found himself wondering whether all confeds rated locomobiles, or whether his own arresting officer was some sort of big-shot within the Bureau. He liked to think so; it tickled his vanity to think that the Bureau wouldn’t send just any confed to arrest him. As Slater had expected, the steamer brought them through the teeming streets of Brooklyn City to the borough’s C.B.I. headquarters on Flatbush Avenue. Another curt order from the confed had Slater and his escort marching up the steps to the main entrance. The confed led them through the foyer to an office with a plaque on the wall that read SUPERINTENDANT MCHUGH. A final curt order had Slater seated in a plain wooden chair, his wrists still clamped. The confed, presumably McHugh, hung his derby on a hatstand and seated himself behind a similarly plain desk, while the millie holstered his sidearm and stationed himself by the door. McHugh drew a sheet of paper from a pigeonhole, dipped a battered fountain pen into an inkwell, and started writing. Slater held his peace. If McHugh wanted to hold off on the truncheons-and-rubber-hoses portion of the interview for the time being, that was fine with Slater. The only sounds in the office were the ticking of the clock on the office wall and the faint noises McHugh made while filling out his form. After seventeen minutes by the ticking clock, McHugh replaced the fountain pen in its holder, looked up from his form, and stared at Slater. After another twenty seconds ticked by on the clock, McHugh spoke. “Mr. Slater, you are in a great deal of trouble.” This was the first tricky part of the interview. McHugh hadn’t asked Slater a question, so there was no need for Slater to answer. On the other hand, by not answering McHugh’s non-question, Slater would be behaving in a non-cooperative manner, which would justify pretty much any response McHugh chose to make. On the third hand, any answer Slater gave would probably also justify pretty much any response McHugh chose to make, so he might as well go for broke. “In that case,” Slater said, “I’d like to have my lawyer present.” McHugh’s face gave nothing away, but Slater could tell from his slight hesitation that he hadn’t been expecting that answer. The confed finally said, “You’ll see a lawyer when I say -–” A knock at the door interrupted McHugh, and this time an actual look of annoyance crossed his face as he looked up from Slater. Before McHugh could answer, the door opened to reveal a young man in the usual confed jacket and bow tie, looking worried. “I’m sorry, superintendant,” the young confed said, “but he said I’d get in trouble if I didn’t let him in.” The door opened wider to reveal a second man in a slightly shabby brown suit and a shapeless hat. Slater schooled his features not to reveal the relief he felt. “Cyrus Berkowitz,” the man introduced himself to McHugh with a tip of his hat. “I’m Mr. Slater’s attorney.” He slipped past the young confed and the millie by the door and stood next to Slater. McHugh glared at the young confed, who apologetically closed the door. McHugh then transferred his glare to Berkowitz. “Get out of here, shyster,” he snarled. “After I’ve spoken with my client,” Berkowitz said coolly. “Unless you’d like to declare a local state of emergency.” FN1 McHugh was clearly unhappy with the turn of events, but he finally said, “Fine.” “What have you told him?” Berkowitz asked Slater. “That I wanted a lawyer,” Slater said. “How did you know I’d been arrested?” Berkowitz raised an eyebrow. “When a locomobile with a load of millies and a C.B.I. agent pull up in front of Jeremy Slater’s home, it isn’t hard to guess who they’ve come for.” The lawyer turned to face McHugh. “So what are you charging my client with?” “Fomenting rebellion,” McHugh said in his usual curt manner. Berkowitz laughed. “If that’s all you’ve got, you might as well release my client now.” McHugh growled, “A bomb was set off in the Gowanus Creek Power Station last week. We captured the perpetrator yesterday and he made a full confession. He said he was inspired by your client. We obtained a copy of your client’s book Essays of the Revolution from the perpetrator’s flat, and he marked it up pretty thoroughly. He made a particularly thorough job in the chapter called ‘Destroy and Be Free.’ We’ll be introducing the book in evidence at your client’s trial.” “I repeat,” said Berkowitz, “you might as well release my client now.” “And it isn’t just the power station,” McHugh continued. “The Bureau has at least a dozen other acts of sabotage around the country on record, in the last four months alone, all inspired by your client. He’s a threat to civilization.” If your civilization is so feeble that one man can bring it down, Slater thought, then it deserves to fall. He knew better than to say so out loud in front of McHugh, but if the confed did put him on trial, he would be telling that to the jury (and, especially, the press). “Even if that were true,” Berkowitz responded, “there’s no law on the books against being a threat to civilization. In any event, all you have against my client, at best, are the ravings of a handful of disturbed individuals. You and the Bureau have overreached yourselves, McHugh. If you insist on pressing charges, all you’ll accomplish is to make his case a cause célèbre. And if, by some monstrous miscarriage of justice, you manage to obtain a conviction, you’ll only be proving my client’s indictment of your civilization correct.” McHugh sat stony-faced. “Is that all, Berkowitz?” “For now.” “Then get out. You’ll be informed of the specific charges against your client at his pretrial hearing.” Berkowitz narrowed his eyes. “Tread lightly, McHugh. If I hear about any coercive interrogation techniques being used against my client, the Bureau will be in so much hot water that you’ll be able to boil a dozen eggs just by looking at them.” McHugh ignored Berkowitz and told the millie, “Campbell, take Slater to a holding cell.” “On your feet,” the millie told Slater. The writer stood, and the millie guided him out of McHugh’s office and into the bowels of the building. He had a feeling it was going to be a long time before he saw the light of day again. ---- Forward to FAN #321B (9 June 1922): Putting Out Fire With Vulcazine. Return to For All Nails. Category:Historical